If I should have a daughter, instead of "Mom," she's going to call me "Point B," because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me.
Če bi imela hčer, bi me namesto "Mama" klicala "Točka B", zato, da bo vedela, da ne glede na to, kaj se zgodi, lahko vedno najde pot vsaj k meni.
And I'm going to paint solar systems on the backs of her hands so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, "Oh, I know that like the back of my hand."
In na dlani ji bom narisala sončne sisteme, tako, da se bo morala naučiti celo vesolje, preden bo lahko rekla: "Oh, to poznam kot svojo dlan".
And she's going to learn that this life will hit you hard in the face, wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids or poetry.
In naučila se bo, da te to življenje udari močno, naravnost v obraz, počaka, da se postaviš na noge, samo da te lahko potem brcne v trebuh. Ampak da ostaneš brez sape, je edini način, da spomniš svoja pljuča, kako zelo jim je všeč okus zraka. Tu je bolečina, ki je ne moreš pozdraviti z obliži ali poezijo.
So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn't coming, I'll make sure she knows she doesn't have to wear the cape all by herself, because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I've tried. "And, baby," I'll tell her, don't keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I've done it a million times. You're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him. But I know she will anyway, so instead I'll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix. Okay, there's a few that chocolate can't fix.
Tako da prvič, ko bo spoznala, da Super Ženske ne bo, bom poskrbela, da bo vedela, da ji ni treba nositi ogrinjala čisto sami, ker ne glede na to, kako na široko razpreš prste, bodo tvoje roke vedno premajhne, da bi ujele vso bolečino, ki jo želiš pozdraviti. Verjemite mi, poskušala sem. "In, ljubica," ji bom rekla, "ne dviguj nosu takole v zrak. Poznam ta trik, sama sem ga izvedla milijonkrat. Samo za dimom vohaš, da bi mu lahko sledila do goreče hiše, da bi našla fanta, ki je v ognju izgubil vse, da bi videla, če ga lahko rešiš. Ali pa boš našla fanta, ki je zanetil požar, da vidiš, če bi ga lahko spremenila." A vem, da bo to vseeno storila, zato bom imela vedno dodatno zalogo čokolade in škornjev za dež, ker ga ni zlomljenega srca, ki ga čokolada ne more pozdraviti. Ok, so zlomljena srca, ki jih čokolada ne more pozdraviti.
But that's what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything, if you let it. I want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind, because that's the way my mom taught me. That there'll be days like this.
Ampak zato so tu škornji za dež, ker bo dež opral vse, če mu le pustiš. Hočem, da si ogleda svet skozi spodnji del ladje s steklenim dnom, da skozi mikroskop pogleda galaksije, ki obstajajo na konici človeškega uma, ker me je tako učila moja mama. Da bodo tudi taki dnevi.
(Singing) There'll be days like this, my momma said. When you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises; when you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape; when your boots will fill with rain, and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment. And those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you.
♫ Taki dnevi bodo, je rekla moja mama. ♫ Ko razširiš roke, da bi ujel in končaš samo z žulji in modricami; ko stopiš iz telefonske govorilnice in poskušaš poleteti in tisti ljudje, ki jih poskušaš rešiti, so tisti, ki ti stojijo na ogrinjalu; ko bodo tvoji škornji polni dežja, in boš do kolen v razočaranju. In to so tisti dnevi, ko boš imela še več razlogov, da rečeš hvala.
Because there's nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it's sent away. You will put the wind in win some, lose some. You will put the star in starting over, and over. And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute, be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty damn naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.
Ker ni nič lepšega kot to, kako ocean ne neha poljubljati obale, ne glede na to, kolikokrat je poslan stran. Ti boš dala vetra v krila besedam "včasih dobiti" in "včasih izgubiti" Z zvezdnim zaznamkom boš označila "začeti znova in znova." In ne glede na to, koliko pehotnih min eksplodira vsako minuto, zagotovi, da tvoj um pristane na lepoti tega hecnega prostora, ki mu pravimo življenje. In da, na lestvici od ena do preveč zaupljiva, sem kar precej naivna. Ampak hočem da ve, da je ta svet narejen iz sladkorja. Tako zlahka se zdrobi, ampak ne boj se iztegniti jezika in ga okusiti.
"Baby," I'll tell her, "remember, your momma is a worrier, and your poppa is a warrior, and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more." Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things. Always apologize when you've done something wrong, but don't you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. Your voice is small, but don't ever stop singing. And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.
"Ljubica," ji bom rekla, "zapomni si, tvojo mamo skrbi, in tvoj očka se bori in ti si dekle z majhnimi dlanmi in velikimi očmi, ki nikoli ne neha prositi za še." Zapomni si, da so vse dobre stvari tri in slabe tudi. In vedno se opraviči, ko storiš kaj narobe, ampak nikoli se ne opravičuj, ker tvoje oči ne nehajo sijati. Tvoj glas je majhen, ampak nikoli ne nehaj peti. In ko ti bodo podali srčno bolečino, ko ti potisnejo vojno in sovraštvo pod vrata in ti podajo letake na cesti o cinizmu in porazu, jim ti povej, da bi res morali spoznati tvojo mamo.
(Applause)
Hvala. Hvala.
Thank you. Thank you.
(Applause)
(Aplavz)
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Aplavz)
Thanks.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Aplavz)
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Aplavz)
All right, so I want you to take a moment, and I want you to think of three things that you know to be true. They can be about whatever you want -- technology, entertainment, design, your family, what you had for breakfast. The only rule is don't think too hard. Okay, ready? Go. Okay.
Hočem, da si vzamete trenutek in hočem, da se spomnite treh stvari, za katere veste, da so resnične. Lahko so o čemerkoli-- tehnologiji, zabavi, dizajnu, vaši družini, kaj ste imeli za zajtrk. Edino pravilo je, da ne premišljujete preveč. Ok, pripravljeni? Gremo. Ok.
So here are three things I know to be true. I know that Jean-Luc Godard was right when he said that, "A good story has a beginning, a middle and an end, although not necessarily in that order." I know that I'm incredibly nervous and excited to be up here, which is greatly inhibiting my ability to keep it cool.
Torej, tu so tri stvari, za katere vem, da so resnične. Vem, da je imel Jean-Luc Godard prav, ko je rekel, da "ima dobra zgodba začetek, sredino in konec, čeprav ne nujno v tem vrstnem redu." Vem, da sem neverjetno nervozna in vznemirjena, ker sem tu kar zelo vpliva na mojo sposobnost ohranjati mirno kri.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
And I know that I have been waiting all week to tell this joke.
In vem, da sem čakala cel teden, da vam povem to šalo.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
Why was the scarecrow invited to TED? Because he was out standing in his field.
Zakaj je bilo strašilo povabljeno na TED? Ker je izstopalo na svojem polju.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
I'm sorry. Okay, so these are three things I know to be true. But there are plenty of things I have trouble understanding. So I write poems to figure things out. Sometimes the only way I know how to work through something is by writing a poem. Sometimes I get to the end of the poem, look back and go, "Oh, that's what this is all about," and sometimes I get to the end of the poem and haven't solved anything, but at least I have a new poem out of it.
Oprostite. Ok, to so torej tri stvari, ki so resnične. Ampak obstaja veliko stvari, ki jih težko razumem. Zato pišem pesmi, da bi jih razumela. Včasih lahko nekaj predelam samo tako, da napišem pesem. In včasih pridem do konca pesmi in pogledam nazaj in si rečem: "Oh, to je torej to," in včasih pridem na konec pesmi in ne rešim ničesar, ampak vsaj novo pesem imam.
Spoken-word poetry is the art of performance poetry. I tell people it involves creating poetry that doesn't just want to sit on paper, that something about it demands it be heard out loud or witnessed in person.
Govorjena poezija je poezija umetnosti nastopanja. Ljudem povem, da je ustvarjanje poezije, ki noče samo sedeti na papirju, da nekaj v njej zahteva, da se jo sliši ali vidi osebno.
When I was a freshman in high school, I was a live wire of nervous hormones. And I was underdeveloped and over-excitable. And despite my fear of ever being looked at for too long, I was fascinated by the idea of spoken-word poetry. I felt that my two secret loves, poetry and theater, had come together, had a baby, a baby I needed to get to know. So I decided to give it a try. My first spoken-word poem, packed with all the wisdom of a 14-year-old, was about the injustice of being seen as unfeminine. The poem was very indignant, and mainly exaggerated, but the only spoken-word poetry that I had seen up until that point was mainly indignant, so I thought that's what was expected of me.
Ko sem bila v prvem letniku srednje šole, sem bila skupek nervoznih hormonov. Bila sem premalo razvita in preveč razdražljiva. In kljub strahu, da bi me kdo predolgo gledal, me je navduševala ideja govorjene poezije. Čutila sem, kot da sta moji skrivni ljubezni, poezija in gledališče, prišli skupaj, imeli otroka, otroka, ki sem ga morala spoznati. Zato sem se odločila, da poskusim. Moja prva govorjena pesem, polna vse modrosti 14-letnice, je bila o nepravičnosti biti videna kot neženstvena. Pesem je bila polna ogorčenja in večinoma pretirana, ampak edina govorjena poezija, ki sem jo videla do takrat, je bila večinoma polna ogorčenja, zato sem mislila, da se to od mene pričakuje. Prvič, ko sem nastopala,
The first time that I performed, the audience of teenagers hooted and hollered their sympathy, and when I came off the stage, I was shaking. I felt this tap on my shoulder, and I turned around to see this giant girl in a hoodie sweatshirt emerge from the crowd. She was maybe eight feet tall and looked like she could beat me up with one hand, but instead she just nodded at me and said, "Hey, I really felt that. Thanks." And lightning struck. I was hooked.
je občinstvo najstnikov kričalo in vpilo svojo podporo, in ko sem prišla dol z odra, sem se tresla. Čutila sem dotik na rami in ko sem se obrnila, sem videla ogromno dekle, v puloverju s kapuco, ki se je dvignila iz množice. Bila je visoka skoraj 2 metra in pol in izgledala, kot da bi me lahko pretepla z eno roko, ampak mi je samo pokimala in rekla: "Hej, to se me je res dotaknilo. Hvala." In zadela me je strela. Bila sem zasvojena.
I discovered this bar on Manhattan's Lower East Side that hosted a weekly poetry open Mic, and my bewildered, but supportive, parents took me to soak in every ounce of spoken word that I could. I was the youngest by at least a decade, but somehow the poets at the Bowery Poetry Club didn't seem bothered by the 14-year-old wandering about. In fact, they welcomed me.
Odkrila sem bar na Manhattnu na Lower East Sideu, kjer so imeli tedenski večer govorjene poezije, in moji zmedeni, ampak spodbujajoči starši so me peljali, da sem lahko zaužila vsak gram govorjene besede. Bila sem mlajša od vseh za vsaj desetletje, ampak pesnikov pri Bowery klubu poezije nekako ni motila 14-letnica, ki je tavala naokrog-- pravzaprav so me bili veseli.
And it was here, listening to these poets share their stories, that I learned that spoken-word poetry didn't have to be indignant, it could be fun or painful or serious or silly. The Bowery Poetry Club became my classroom and my home, and the poets who performed encouraged me to share my stories as well. Never mind the fact that I was 14. They told me, "Write about being 14." So I did and stood amazed every week when these brilliant, grown-up poets laughed with me and groaned their sympathy and clapped and told me, "Hey, I really felt that too."
In med poslušanjem teh pesnikov, ko so delili svoje zgodbe, sem spoznala, da govorjena poezija ni nujno polna ogorčenja, lahko je vesela ali boleča ali pa resna ali trapasta. Bowery klub poezije je postal moja učilnica in moj dom in pesniki, ki so nastopali, so me spodbujali, naj tudi jaz delim svoje zgodbe. Ni jim bilo mar, da imam 14 let-- rekli so mi: "Piši o tem, kako je biti star 14 let." In sem in stala sem očarana vsak teden, ko so se ti briljantni, odrasli pesniki smejali z menoj in ječali v podporo in ploskali in rekli: "Hej, tudi jaz tako čutim."
Now I can divide my spoken-word journey into three steps. Step one was the moment I said, "I can. I can do this." And that was thanks to a girl in a hoodie. Step two was the moment I said, "I will. I will continue. I love spoken word. I will keep coming back week after week." And step three began when I realized I didn't have to write indignant poems, if that's not what I was. There were things that were specific to me, and the more that I focused on those things, the weirder my poetry got, but the more that it felt like mine. It's not just the adage "Write what you know." It's about gathering up all of the knowledge and experience you've collected up to now to help you dive into the things you don't know. I use poetry to help me work through what I don't understand, but I show up to each new poem with a backpack full of everywhere else that I've been.
Sedaj lahko razdelim moje potovanje govorjene poezije v tri korake. Prvi korak je bil, ko sem dejala: "Zmorem. To lahko storim." In to je bilo zaradi dekleta v puloverju s kapuco. Drugi korak je bil trenutek, ko sem rekla: "Bom. Nadaljevala bom. Ljubim govorjeno besedo. Prihajala bom nazaj teden za tednom." In tretji korak se je začel, ko sem spoznala, da ni treba, da so moje pesmi ogorčene, če jaz ne čutim tako. Bile so stvari, ki so bile specifične zame in bolj ko sem se osredotočala nanje, bolj čudna je postajala moja poezija, ampak tudi vse bolj moja. Ni samo pregovor: "Piši o tem, kar poznaš." Gre za zbiranje vsega znanja in izkušenj, ki si jih nabral do sedaj, da se lahko potopiš v stvari, ki jih ne poznaš. Poezijo uporabljam, da predelam tisto, česar ne razumem, ampak vsaki novi pesmi se prikažem z nahrbtnikom polnim vsega drugega, kjer sem že bila.
When I got to university, I met a fellow poet who shared my belief in the magic of spoken-word poetry. And actually, Phil Kaye and I coincidentally also share the same last name. When I was in high school I had created Project V.O.I.C.E. as a way to encourage my friends to do spoken word with me. But Phil and I decided to reinvent Project V.O.I.C.E., this time changing the mission to using spoken-word poetry as a way to entertain, educate and inspire. We stayed full-time students, but in between we traveled, performing and teaching nine-year-olds to MFA candidates, from California to Indiana to India to a public high school just up the street from campus.
Ko sem prišla na univerzo, sem spoznala pesnika, ki je z mano delil vero v magijo govorjene besede. In pravzaprav si Phil Kaye in jaz slučajno deliva tudi priimek. V srednji šoli sem ustvarila Projekt V.O.I.C.E. (glas), da bi vzpodbudila prijatelje, da se mi pridružijo pri govorjeni poeziji. Phil in jaz pa sva se odločila na novo izumiti Projekt V.O.I.C.E. - spremenila sva namen, da bi uporabila govorjeno besedo kot način zabave, učenja in inspiracije. Bila sva študenta, ampak med študijem sva potovala, nastopala in učila od devetletnikov do MFA kandidatov, od Kalifornije do Indiane do Indije, do javne srednje šole samo ulico naprej od študentskega doma.
And we saw over and over the way that spoken-word poetry cracks open locks. But it turns out sometimes, poetry can be really scary. Turns out sometimes, you have to trick teenagers into writing poetry. So I came up with lists. Everyone can write lists. And the first list that I assign is "10 Things I Know to be True." And here's what happens, you would discover it too if we all started sharing our lists out loud. At a certain point, you would realize that someone has the exact same thing, or one thing very similar, to something on your list. And then someone else has something the complete opposite of yours. Third, someone has something you've never even heard of before. Fourth, someone has something you thought you knew everything about, but they're introducing a new angle of looking at it. And I tell people that this is where great stories start from -- these four intersections of what you're passionate about and what others might be invested in.
In videla sva znova in znova, kako govorjena poezija odpira ključavnice. Ampak izkaže se, da je poezija lahko strašljiva. Izkaže se, da moraš najstnike ukaniti, da pišejo poezijo. Zato sem se domislila seznamov. Vsak jih lahko napiše. In prvi seznam, ki ga dam za nalogo, je "10 stvari, za katere vem, da so resnične." In nekaj se zgodi, nekaj, kar bi odkrili tudi vi, če bi te sezname začeli deliti med seboj. Na določeni točki bi spoznali, da ima nekdo točno isto stvar ali eno zelo podobno nečemu na tvojem seznamu. In potem ima nekdo drug nekaj popolnoma nasprotnega tvojemu. Tretjič, nekdo ima nekaj, za kar nisi še nikoli slišal. In četrtič, nekdo ima nekaj, za kar si mislil, da veš vse o tem, ampak vam predstavi nov zorni kot. Ljudem povem, da se tu začnejo dobre zgodbe-- na teh štirih križiščih tega, kar vas navdušuje in kar zanima druge. In večina ljudi se zelo dobro odzove na to vajo.
And most people respond really well to this exercise. But one of my students, a freshman named Charlotte, was not convinced. Charlotte was very good at writing lists, but she refused to write any poems. "Miss," she'd say, "I'm just not interesting. I don't have anything interesting to say." So I assigned her list after list, and one day I assigned the list "10 Things I Should Have Learned by Now." Number three on Charlotte's list was, "I should have learned not to crush on guys three times my age." I asked her what that meant, and she said, "Miss, it's kind of a long story." And I said, "Charlotte, it sounds pretty interesting to me." And so she wrote her first poem, a love poem unlike any I had ever heard before. And the poem began, "Anderson Cooper is a gorgeous man."
Ampak ena izmed mojih študentk, Charlotte iz prvega letnika, ni bila prepričana. Bila zelo dobra pri pisanju seznamov, ampak ni hotela napisati nobene pesmi. Rekla je: "Preprosto nisem zanimiva. Nič zanimivega nimam povedati." Zato sem ji naložila pisanje enega seznama za drugim in nekega dne je morala napisat seznam "10 stvari, ki bi jih do zdaj morala znati." Številka tri na njenem seznamu je bila, "Morala bi se naučiti, da se ne zatreskam v fante ki so trikrat starejši od mene." Vprašala sem jo, kaj je mislila s tem, in rekla je: "Dolga zgodba je." In sem rekla: "Charlotte, zveni mi precej zanimivo." In tako je napisala svojo prvo pesem, ljubezensko pesem, kot je še nisem slišala. In pesem je šla takole: "Anderson Cooper je prekrasen moški."
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
"Did you see him on 60 Minutes, racing Michael Phelps in a pool -- nothing but swim trunks on -- diving in the water, determined to beat this swimming champion? After the race, he tossed his wet, cloud-white hair and said, 'You're a god.' No, Anderson, you're the god."
"Ste ga videli v oddaji 60 minut, tekmovati z Michaelom Phelpsom v bazenu-- samo v kopalkah-- kako se je potopil v vodo, odločen, da premaga prvaka v plavanju? In po tekmi je stresel svoje mokre, kot oblak bele lase in rekel: 'Ti si bog.' Ne, Anderson, ti si bog."
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
(Applause)
(Aplavz)
Now, I know that the number one rule to being cool is to seem unfazed, to never admit that anything scares you or impresses you or excites you. Somebody once told me it's like walking through life like this. You protect yourself from all the unexpected miseries or hurt that might show up. But I try to walk through life like this. And yes, that means catching all of those miseries and hurt, but it also means that when beautiful, amazing things just fall out of the sky, I'm ready to catch them. I use spoken word to help my students rediscover wonder, to fight their instincts to be cool and unfazed and, instead, actively pursue being engaged with what goes on around them, so that they can reinterpret and create something from it.
Vem, da je pravilo številka ena, da si kul, da se zdiš nevznemirjen, da nikoli ne priznaš, da te karkoli straši ali navdušuje ali vznemirja. Nekdo mi je nekoč rekel, da potem hodiš skozi življenje takole. Zavaruješ se pred vsemi nepričakovanimi nesrečami ali bolečino, ki se lahko zgodi. Ampak jaz poskušam hoditi skozi življenje takole. In ja, to pomeni, da ujameš vse te nesreče in bolečino, ampak prav tako pa, ko te lepe, neverjetne stvari kar padejo z neba, jih lahko ujamem. Z govorjeno poezijo pomagam učencem ponovno odkriti čudenje, da se borijo z instinktom biti kul in nevznemirjen in so namesto tega aktivno vpleteni v dogajanje okrog sebe, da ga lahko reinterpretirajo in ustvarijo nekaj novega.
It's not that I think that spoken-word poetry is the ideal art form. I'm always trying to find the best way to tell each story. I write musicals; I make short films alongside my poems. But I teach spoken-word poetry because it's accessible. Not everyone can read music or owns a camera, but everyone can communicate in some way, and everyone has stories that the rest of us can learn from. Plus, spoken-word poetry allows for immediate connection. It's not uncommon to feel like you're alone or that nobody understands you, but spoken word teaches that if you have the ability to express yourself and the courage to present those stories and opinions, you could be rewarded with a room full of your peers, or your community, who will listen. And maybe even a giant girl in a hoodie who will connect with what you've shared. And that is an amazing realization to have, especially when you're 14. Plus, now with YouTube, that connection's not even limited to the room we're in. I'm so lucky that there's this archive of performances that I can share with my students. It allows for even more opportunities for them to find a poet or a poem that they connect to.
Ne mislim, da je govorjena poezija popolna oblika umetnosti. Vedno poskušam najti najboljši način, da povem zgodbo. Muzikale pišem; ustvarjam kratke filme poleg svojih pesmi. Ampak učim govorjeno poezijo, ker je lahko dosegljiva. Ne more vsak brati not ali imeti kamere, ampak vsi lahko na nek način komuniciramo in vsi imamo zgodbe, od katerih se drugi lahko učijo. Plus, govorjena poezija ustvari takojšnje povezave. Ni nenavadno, da se ljudje počutijo same ali da jih nihče ne razume, ampak govorjena poezija nas uči, da če se lahko izraziš in imaš pogum, da predstaviš te zgodbe in mnenja, si lahko nagrajen s sobo polno tvojih vrstnikov ali tvoje skupnosti, ki bo poslušala. In morda se bo še ogromno dekle v puloverju s kapuco povezalo s tem, kar deliš. In to je neverjetno spoznanje, še posebej, ko si star 14 let. In sedaj z YouTubom ta povezava ni več omejena na sobo, v kateri smo. Srečo imam, da obstaja arhiv nastopov, ki jih lahko delim s svojimi učenci. Ponuja jim še več možnosti, da najdejo pesnika ali pesem, s katerim se povežejo.
Once you've figured this out, it is tempting to keep writing the same poem, or keep telling the same story, over and over, once you've figured out that it will gain you applause. It's not enough to just teach that you can express yourself. You have to grow and explore and take risks and challenge yourself. And that is step three: infusing the work you're doing with the specific things that make you you, even while those things are always changing. Because step three never ends. But you don't get to start on step three, until you take step one first: "I can."
Mamljivo je -- ko to enkrat ugotoviš -- mamljivo je, da bi kar naprej pisal isto pesem ali pripovedoval isto zgodbo, znova in znova, ko si ugotovil, da ti bo prinesla aplavz. Ni dovolj, da se učiš izražanja samega sebe. Moraš rasti in raziskovati in tvegati in se izzvati. In to je tretji korak: prepojiti svoje delo s specifičnimi stvarmi, ki te delajo to, kar si, čeprav se te stvari vedno spreminjajo. Ker se tretji korak nikoli ne konča. Ampak ne moreš začeti s tretjim korakom, dokler ne storiš prvega koraka: zmorem. Veliko potujem, ko učim,
I travel a lot while I'm teaching, and I don't always get to watch all of my students reach their step three, but I was very lucky with Charlotte, that I got to watch her journey unfold the way it did. I watched her realize that, by putting the things that she knows to be true into the work she's doing, she can create poems that only Charlotte can write, about eyeballs and elevators and Dora the Explorer. And I'm trying to tell stories only I can tell -- like this story. I spent a lot of time thinking about the best way to tell this story, and I wondered if the best way was going to be a PowerPoint, a short film -- And where exactly was the beginning, the middle or the end? I wondered whether I'd get to the end of this talk and finally have figured it all out, or not.
in mojih učencev ne vidim vedno doseči tretjega koraka, a s Charlotte sem imela veliko srečo, da sem lahko videla, kako se odvija njeno potovanje. Opazovala sem jo, ko je spoznala, da s tem, ko v svoje delo vključi stvari, za katere ve, da so resnične, lahko ustvari pesmi, ki jih lahko napiše samo Charlotte-- o očeh in dvigalih in Dori raziskovalki. In jaz poskušam povedati zgodbe, ki jih lahko povem samo jaz-- kot to zgodbo. Veliko časa sem premišljevala, kako naj povem to zgodbo, in se spraševala, če je najboljši način PowerPoint ali kratki film-- in kje natančno je začetek in sredina in konec. In spraševala sem se, če bom prišla na konec tega govora in bom končno vse razumela, ali ne.
And I always thought that my beginning was at the Bowery Poetry Club, but it's possible that it was much earlier. In preparing for TED, I discovered this diary page in an old journal. I think December 54th was probably supposed to be 24th. It's clear that when I was a child, I definitely walked through life like this. I think that we all did. I would like to help others rediscover that wonder -- to want to engage with it, to want to learn, to want to share what they've learned, what they've figured out to be true and what they're still figuring out.
In čeprav sem vedno mislila, da sem začela v Bowery klubu poezije, je bilo mogoče mnogo prej. Med pripravami za TED sem odkrila stran v starem dnevniku. Mislim, da bi 54. december moral biti 24. december. Jasno je, da sem kot otrok definitivno hodila skozi življenje tako. Mislim, da smo vsi. Rada bi pomagala drugim, da zopet odkrijejo čudenje-- da se z njim spoprimejo, da se učijo, da želijo deliti, kar so se naučili, kar so ugotovili, da je res in kar še zmeraj ugotavljajo. Rada bi končala s to pesmijo.
So I'd like to close with this poem.
When they bombed Hiroshima, the explosion formed a mini-supernova, so every living animal, human or plant that received direct contact with the rays from that sun was instantly turned to ash. And what was left of the city soon followed. The long-lasting damage of nuclear radiation caused an entire city and its population to turn into powder. When I was born, my mom says I looked around the whole hospital room with a stare that said, "This? I've done this before." She says I have old eyes. When my Grandpa Genji died, I was only five years old, but I took my mom by the hand and told her, "Don't worry, he'll come back as a baby." And yet, for someone who's apparently done this already, I still haven't figured anything out yet. My knees still buckle every time I get on a stage. My self-confidence can be measured out in teaspoons mixed into my poetry, and it still always tastes funny in my mouth. But in Hiroshima, some people were wiped clean away, leaving only a wristwatch or a diary page. So no matter that I have inhibitions to fill all my pockets, I keep trying, hoping that one day I'll write a poem I can be proud to let sit in a museum exhibit as the only proof I existed. My parents named me Sarah, which is a biblical name. In the original story, God told Sarah she could do something impossible, and -- she laughed, because the first Sarah, she didn't know what to do with impossible. And me? Well, neither do I, but I see the impossible every day. Impossible is trying to connect in this world, trying to hold onto others while things are blowing up around you, knowing that while you're speaking, they aren't just waiting for their turn to talk -- they hear you. They feel exactly what you feel at the same time that you feel it. It's what I strive for every time I open my mouth -- that impossible connection. There's this piece of wall in Hiroshima that was completely burnt black by the radiation. But on the front step, a person who was sitting there blocked the rays from hitting the stone. The only thing left now is a permanent shadow of positive light. After the A-bomb, specialists said it would take 75 years for the radiation-damaged soil of Hiroshima City to ever grow anything again. But that spring, there were new buds popping up from the earth. When I meet you, in that moment, I'm no longer a part of your future. I start quickly becoming part of your past. But in that instant, I get to share your present. And you, you get to share mine. And that is the greatest present of all. So if you tell me I can do the impossible -- I'll probably laugh at you. I don't know if I can change the world yet, because I don't know that much about it -- and I don't know that much about reincarnation either, but if you make me laugh hard enough, sometimes I forget what century I'm in. This isn't my first time here. This isn't my last time here. These aren't the last words I'll share. But just in case, I'm trying my hardest to get it right this time around.
Ko so odvrgli bombo na Hirošimo, je eksplozija oblikovala mini-supernovo, tako da se je vsaka žival, človek ali rastlina, ki je bila v direktnem stiku z žarki tega sonca, nemudoma spremenila v prah. In kar je ostalo od mesta, je kmalu sledilo. Dolgoročna škoda nuklearnega sevanja je spremenila celotno mesto in njegove prebivalce v prah. Mama pravi, da ko sem se rodila, sem pogledala po celotni sobi v bolnišnici s pogledom, ki je govoril: To? Tole sem pa že počela." Pravi, da imam stare oči. In ko je umrl moj dedek Genji, sem imela samo 5 let, a sem prijela mamo za roko in ji rekla: "Ne skrbi, vrnil se bo kot dojenček." Ampak vseeno, za nekoga, ki naj bi to vse že počel, še vedno ne razumem ničesar. Kolena se mi šibijo vsakič, ko grem na oder. Moja samozavest se lahko meri v žličkah, zmešanih v mojo poezijo in še vedno ima v mojih ustih čuden okus. Ampak v Hirošimi je nekatere ljudi izbrisalo, ostala je samo zapestna ura ali pa stran v dnevniku. Tako da čeprav imam dovolj zadržkov, da bi z njimi napolnila vse žepe, se še naprej trudim, upajoč, da bom nekega dne napisala pesem, ki jo lahko pustim videti v muzeju, kot edini dokaz, da sem kdaj obstajala. Starši so me poimenovali Sarah, kar je biblično ime. V prvotni zgodbi je Bog povedal Sarah, da lahko stori nekaj nemogočega in smejala se je, ker prva Sarah ni vedela, kaj naj z nemogočim počne. In jaz? No, tudi jaz ne, ampak nemogoče vidim vsak dan. Nemogoče se je poskušati povezati v tem svetu, ko se držiš za druge, medtem ko stvari eksplodirajo okrog tebe, vedoč, da medtem ko govoriš, ne čakajo samo, da bodo prišli na vrsto -- slišijo te. Čutijo točno to, kar čutiš ti, istočasno kot ti. K temu stremim vsakič, ko odprem usta-- k tej nemogoči povezavi. V Hirošimi je kos zidu, ki je popolnoma črn zaradi radiacije. Ampak na stopnici pred njim je oseba, ki je tam sedela, preprečila žarkom, da bi zadeli zid. Edina stvar, ki je ostala, je večna senca pozitivne svetlobe. Po atomski bombi so specialisti rekli, da bo trajalo 75 let, da bo v od radiacije poškodovani zemlji v Hirošimi še kaj raslo. Ampak tisto pomlad so novi popki kukali iz zemlje. Ko vas srečam, v tistem trenutku nisem več del vaše prihodnosti. Hitro začenjam postajati del vaše preteklosti. Ampak v tistem trenutku z vami delim sedanjost. In vi si jo delite z mano. In to je največji dar od vseh. Če mi torej rečete, da lahko naredim nemogoče, se vam bom najbrž smejala. Ne vem še, če lahko spremenim svet, ker ne vem veliko o njem-- in tudi o reinkarnaciji ne vem prav dosti, ampak če me spravite v dovolj močan smeh, včasih pozabim, v katerem stoletju sem. Tu nisem prvič. Tu nisem zadnjič. To niso zadnje besede, ki jih delim. Ampak za vsak slučaj se zelo trudim, da mi tokrat uspe.
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Aplavz)
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Aplavz)
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Aplavz)
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Aplavz)